


the flowers sleeping in her hands

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Kid Fic, Loss of Parent(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5042359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Maker knows I love Him." Bran swallows. “The last words of Divine Victoria, first of her name. Varric, I’m sorry.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the flowers sleeping in her hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weatheredlaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/gifts).
  * Inspired by [my heart is fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870819) by [weatheredlaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw). 



> _I was too young to understand_  
>  The flowers slipping from your hands  
> I was too young to understand  
> I was too young to understand 

Ilsa is six when the Divine dies.

 

The sun shines on Kirkwall that afternoon, her feet precarious along the wall running the length of the rebuilt docks. The bustle of trade around her makes her happy - the noise of fishermen shouting their wares, the bright colours favoured by the ladies of Kirkwall all around her, and just in line of sight, her father, smiling broadly at Aunty Rivaini's jokes.

He is holding her flowers for her whilst she scrambles around the docks - peonies, of softest pink. 

And then Uncle Bran comes running around the corner, notices in hand, and Ilsa watches with curiosity as her father’s face falls, and the peonies slip from his fingers to hit the ground.

"The Maker knows I love Him." Bran swallows. “The last words of Divine Victoria, first of her name. Varric, I’m sorry.”

“We were… shit, we were going to visit her in the spring.” His voice is quiet, thin. Ilsa hops down from the wall.

“Da! Words!”

His eyes meet hers, and she is struck by something she does not yet have words for. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and she wonders what he is sorry for.

 

* * *

 

It is raining in Val Royeaux. He makes her wear her hood up, even indoors.

“Varric?”

Ilsa is tired, too tired to recognise the woman with red hair who approaches her father with a sad smile on her face.

“Nightingale,” he greets her. “Are the others here?”

“Not everyone. Bull sends his regrets, and I have not heard from Sera. Hello, Ilsa.”

She rubs her eye, a soft  _ hello  _ on her lips. Her father holds her a little closer, kissing her forehead.

“Listen, I know -”

“I can buy you a little time. Only a little, though. Tomorrow evening. Come, you should rest.”

 

 

* * *

They spend the day meeting old friends, though her father smiles little. Uncle Sparkler shows her a magic trick - literally - as Uncle Curly walks the gardens with her father. Whatever they talk about must be very solemn indeed, for when they return the men are quiet and Uncle Curly hugs her too tightly.

“Little Ilsa,” he whispers, “she would have been so proud.”

Her father blinks a lot.

 

* * *

 

He has peonies in his hands when he leaves her with his friends, slipping away quietly.

The peonies were not for her, but she follows the scent anyway. Stopping at the door of a grand room, she lingers, watching her father.

He sits by a sleeping woman, tucking the flowers underneath her clasped hands, and for the first time in her life, Ilsa cannot quite believe how small he looks. His voice is too low to hear clearly, but it breaks, and he stops altogether before bowing his head, shaking.

And then she hears it - a soft cry. Her father’s cry, she realises, his hands clasped around the woman’s, and it does not stop for a long time.

Behind her, someone finds her. “Ilsa!”

“Aunty Ruffles?” She tugs on the woman’s hand. “What’s happening?”

“Oh, my darling,” she murmurs, sweeping the girl up into her arms. “A terribly sad thing is happening. Your Da’s saying goodbye to a very important person, and he doesn’t want to.”

“Is Da sad because he has to say goodbye?”

“Yes, my darling. He is awfully sad. We all are.”

Ilsa rests her head against Josephine’s, peering through the gloom to find her father’s figure once more. She wonders who the woman is, and where she might be going.

She wonders where it hurts, that makes him cry so much.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve heard, by now. Her final words?”

“Yeah. Beautiful.”

“Not the entire truth.” The woman with red hair takes his hand. “She knew, for a very long time, that she was sick.”

“Why didn’t she say something? We could have -”

The woman silences him with a look. “You knew what she was like. She remained defiant, even at the last. She spoke of the afterlife. She said, "I do not fear it. My family will find me. Ilsa will find me. My love will find me. The Maker will let Varric pass - the Maker knows I love him."”

Her father stills, and Ilsa will never forget the look on his face. The sorrow that would haunt him.

 

* * *

 

“She’s beautiful.”

“Just like her mother.”

“Oh, Varric -”

“Just - just give me a minute, Sparkler.”

His hand is warm on her head, his lips soft.

“Sweet dreams, princess.”

 

* * *

 

The funeral for Divine Victoria is a grand affair. The people flock in their thousands, and the silence is all the deeper for their presence.

Her father holds her close, and they leave as soon as the body is given to the fires.

 

* * *

 

She does not ask about her mother for a long time - after all, many children had lost a parent in the recent history of Kirkwall. But eventually, she does.

“Da?”

“Yes, sprout?”

“Where’s my mother?”

He drops the mug in his hands, recovering it before it hits the ground. “Shit.”

“Words,” she says, automatically now.

“Your mother?”

“I must have one. _Everyone_ has one.”

He puts the mug back into the sink, drying off his hands before joining her at the table. “You do have one, yes.” He offers his hand, and she smiles as she places her smaller one in his. "You didn't just grow out of the ground, despite what I might call you."

“Where is she?”

He swallows, fingers closing over hers. “She’s with the Maker, sprout.”

“Oh.”

“Has been for a few years, now. But she’ll always be with us, in a way.”

“What was she like?”

He smiles, reaching to stroke her cheek. “She was a warrior without compare,” he says softly. “She saw what needed to be done, and she did it. She was a Seeker of Truth, a very special woman, and she made sure you would _always_ know what a loving home was. And she loved you as much as I do.” He leans over, kissing her forehead.

“Why did she die?”

“Because sometimes people get sick and they’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

“Really?”

He laughs, though there is no joy in it. “No, sprout. Life’s just unfair sometimes. Now finish your dinner.”

 

* * *

 

Ilsa is twenty-two when her father dies.

“Da, please -”

“It’s alright, sprout.” His hands close around hers, still somehow bigger, still making her feel like a child. “It’s alright. It’s time.”

“I don’t want you to go!”

He chuckles, a rich noise marred only by the wheeze of his chest. “We don't always get what we want. You've been very lucky up til now, because I'm a pushover."

She pulls his hand up to her cheek, blinking away the tears. "Da..."

He strokes her cheek. "You've grown so much. You're such a _good_ girl, you know that? Seeker'd be proud of you... Maker knows I am."

"What was her name, Da? You never told me."

He smiles. “Her name was Cassandra, and she loved you the minute she laid eyes on you. And she never stopped. Don’t forget that, sprout.”

“Cassandra - the woman from the Inquisition?”

His eyes close. “My Seeker. My stupid, noble Seeker. You’ve got her cheekbones. Always said as much. And her smile.” He swallows. “I see her in your smile.”

She offers it now, her tear falling freely. “Da,” she whispers, “I want you to stay. Please, stay.” Her fingers wrap around his hand, as if holding tightly might anchor him. “I _need_ you to stay and tell me about her. I don’t know the stories.”

“Seeker,” he breathes.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave me.” Ilsa begins to cry in earnest, feeling him slow beneath her hands. But he reaches up once more, cupping her face.

“I love you, Ilsa,” he murmurs. “Be good.”

“I love you, Da.” She kisses his hand. “Tell her I love her.”

He smiles, and then he goes - 

 

 - all at once, and at peace.

 

 

* * *

 

The funeral is well attended, but in the dusk she awaits the woman with red hair.

“My mother was the Divine.”

“Yes.” Leliana’s hair is streaked with silver, the crow’s feet visible even in the low light. “She did not know until months after she had been chosen.”

“And she sent me to my Da.”

“She knew he would love you without reserve.”

She nods, swallowing. “Best thing she could do, right?”

Leliana’s hand on her arm is light, worn. “What will you do, now?”

Ilsa Tethras takes a shaky breath, letting it out in a huff. “I think,” she says slowly, “I need to write my own story.”


End file.
